


A Traveler on a Winter's Night

by Linguini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cops have tough jobs, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, and deserve some love too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally shows up at the surgery one night, a bit the worse for the wear.  John and Sarah take care of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Traveler on a Winter's Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt [here](http://sherlockrare.livejournal.com/814.html?thread=9006#t9006).

If it hadn’t been for the surgery’s unofficial mascot, he’d never have seen her. Not hidden below the street the way she was, curled at the bottom of the basement stairs with her head between her knees. John finished setting out the saucer of milk on the stoop and descended towards the huddled figure.

“Miss?” he asked gently. “Excuse me, miss? It’s too cold for you to stay out here.”

The stooped shoulders shook gently, although with tears or cold he couldn’t say. John placed his hand on a thin shoulder, but the woman shrank away from him as if burned. He took an instinctive step back.

“Alright, then. I won’t touch you. Just come inside where it’s warmer. Just for a bit, eh? No reason for you to spend another night on the streets.”

A raspy huff emerged, muffled by arms and the woolen coat. “Christ, John. Do I really…look that … bad?” Sally Donovan lifted her head, lasting only a moment before she listed dangerously to one side. John was barely fast enough to catch her, and was alarmed to find his palm red where he’d cradled her cheek.

Yelling for Sarah as loudly as he could, John tugged gently on Sally’s sleeve. “Up you get, Sally. Let’s get you inside.”

Sarah emerged from the door and ran down the stairs. John started to throw Sally’s arm around his shoulders, but stopped at her gasp of pain. Swallowing a spike of worry, he moved his arm around her waist and made quick introductions.

“Sally, this is Dr. Sarah Sawyer, a friend of mine. Sarah, DS Sally Donovan of Scotland Yard.”

Mercifully, Sarah didn’t ask any questions, just stooped down and slid the other woman’s arm around her shoulders. With Sally between them, the three of them managed an awkward shuffle hop up the stairs. The DS’s innate stubbornness meant she had managed the first flight of steps and was halfway up the second before she became dead weight, chin drooping to touch her collarbone. John breathed a silent prayer of thanks, unceremoniously lifting her completely in a fireman’s carry. Sarah hurried ahead to ready the nearest room and was pulling out supplies by the time he had deposited his burden on the exam table, taking a brief moment to smirk and him when he rotated his shoulder gingerly.

In the harsh light of the exam room, Sally looked worse than before. A long cut above her left eye had stained the side of her face red, while a nasty bruise was already blossoming over the other cheek. Sarah and John moved together efficiently, cataloguing injuries and discussing treatment options.

The final tally was grim: a fractured wrist, wrenched shoulder, nearly-dislocated knee, the head laceration, and a possible concussion. On top of that, there didn’t seem to be a square inch of the detective sergeant’s body that wasn’t covered in bruises or cuts, with the clear tread mark of a boot evident in more than a couple of places. All in all, Sally was very lucky to be alive, let alone mobile.

Having cleaned up the worst of the injuries, John left Sarah to bandage the rest and to re-dress their patient. Standing in the breakroom shared by the surgery’s residents, he flicked the kettle on and pulled out his mobile. His calls to Lestrade’s mobile, work, and home numbers all went unanswered, but he left an urgent message asking him to call back.

Lastly, he dialed his flatmate. It nearly rang through to answerphone before Sherlock picked up, and John felt the last of his patience start to fray.

“What is it, John? I’m in the middle of something.”

John heaved out a brief sigh. “Sally Donovan just showed up at the surgery. She’s been beaten pretty badly. Do you know where Lestrade is? I couldn’t get hold of him.”

There was a brief, worrying pause before Sherlock answered. “He has been investigating a series of gang-related murders in Hackney, but that’s no reason for him not to answer his mobile.”

John hummed down the phone. “Well, Sally’s in bad shape and I don’t have any information on her family. Do you think Anderson might know something?”

“Really, John. They haven’t been together in months. A nasty breakup from all signs. You should pay more attention to these things.”

The doctor ignored the comment in favor of concentrating on ferrying two mugs of tea back into the exam room. With the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear and each hand full of a mug, the best he could do was hope that Sarah had already re-dressed Sally. “Look, can you see if you can find someone to go look for Lestrade? We need someone to take her home and I don’t really think she should be alone.”

John could practically hear the gears whizzing in Sherlock’s head. All he got out loud, however, was a terse “I’ll phone you back” and an insistent dial tone. With a mental shrug, he sat in the chair on the other side of the bed, sizing up their patient.

“She woke up for just a bit earlier,” Sarah informed him. “Moderate concussion, I think. She’s a little bit confused, but I didn’t ask her for any details. I think we should take her to A&E.”

John was shaking his head before she’d even finished the sentence. “I know we need to do scans, but I don’t feel right leaving her in hospital alone. She’s obviously been treated poorly, and I can’t get a hold of her boss.”

Sarah cocked her head to the side. “You’re worried about something. More than just this Sergeant Donovan, I mean.”

John sighed. “It’s not like Lestrade to be completely out of contact. And Sherlock doesn’t know where he is, either. I think something terrible has happened and I think Detective Sergeant Donovan needs our protection.”

*****  
It was hours before they heard from Sherlock. In the meantime, they’d managed to get Sally to hospital to run precautionary scans with as little fuss as possible. Sarah had explained about the nature of the Detective Sergeant’s work to the head of the A&E (an old chum), which had greatly expedited the process. There had been a bit of a discussion over whether to return to the surgery or to take Sally to Baker Street to wait for instructions from Sherlock. Sarah eventually compromised by offering up her spare bedroom, and they began the trek back to her flat, which was where Sherlock found them some hours later.

The doctors had split their observation into shifts, so only John was awake when his flatmate arrived. Standing to make another mug of tea, John gave a full body stretch, wincing as various cracks and pops came from his back. “Coffee?” he offered.

The taller man shook his head. “No. I’m on my way out again.”

Eyebrows raised, John flicked off the kettle before it was finished and fished in the cabinet for a mug. “You didn’t have to come all the way here, then. I thought you preferred to text.”

“Usually, I do” Sherlock answered. “But I’ve left my mobile and came to get yours.”

“Left yours?” John asked. “Were?”

Sherlock looked to a point somewhere just over John’s left shoulder, a small crease between his brows. “I’ve found Lestrade” was all he answered.

John knew that look and, being no slouch in the reasoning department himself, came to the correct conclusion. “How bad off is he?” was all he asked.

The lines on the angular face smoothed into what John privately called the “full speed ahead” look. Usually, it meant that the great brain was whirring away, pondering a particularly difficult problem. Occasionally, it meant Sherlock was trying to identify a particularly vexing emotion. John wasn’t sure which he was getting, but it wasn’t outside the probable that it was some mixture of the two.

Sherlock answered, “Nothing permanent, but he’ll be useless for cases for a while. I’ve ensured he’s well looked after. Both of their mobiles had been destroyed, and the pieces are in Anderson’s lab waiting for him to process them. I need to be able to contact Lestrade, so I leant him mine, which is why I need yours.”

John dug through his coat, tossing the phone to Sherlock. “Right then,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “What’s next?”

Sherlock smiled--a feral, dangerous thing. “Hunting. I’ve examined the scene and deduced where the shipment of weapons is due to come in. Mycroft is prepared to aid in their capture, but I’d like to be present myself. Are you coming?”

John already had his jacket on and was heading for the door before he stopped suddenly. “Of course I’m coming. Just let me tell Sarah before I go.” He popped into the back room. Luckily, the other doctor was already awake and agreed readily to keep an eye on Sally while they were out.

Sliding in next to Sherlock in the cab, John tapped him on the knee. “I thought you said Lestrade was investigating murders in Hackney. How did they get involved in arms shipments?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced at John before turning his gaze back out the window. “Obviously, they weren’t looking for the weapons, John. They were investigating the head of the gang for the murders. The arms shipments were secondary to their aim, so Lestrade’s team was working with Customs officials. Everything I’ve been able to discover says that this was a highly confidential raid, so it’s apparent the criminals had advance warning.”

“You think someone sold them out?!” John gaped.

“Yes. However, I’ve managed to rule out the Yard’s team members, which just leaves Her Majesty’s Customs officials.”

“Which explains why Mycroft is involved.”

Sherlock nodded, but sneaked a sideways glance at his flatmate. “My brother is furious he hadn’t noticed before. It’s the most energy he’s displayed in some time. However, it’s clear that the perpetrators believe that Sally and Lestrade can identify them as their attackers. Lestrade was approached no fewer than three times on the journey to Mycroft’s. It’s best if we keep them under observation for the time being.”

“If Lestrade looks anything like Sally, they shouldn’t be alone for a couple of weeks anyway, medically speaking” John agreed. Pondering for a minute, he came to another interesting question. “What is Lestrade doing at your brother’s? I mean, why isn’t he with his family?”

Sherlock turned to face the center of the seat. “Lestrade has no family.”

“I’ve seen his ring,” John protested.

Shrugging, Sherlock replied, “He _had_ a family, but does no longer. Cancer. Nearly five years ago. He’s lucky to have crawled out of the bottle.”

John suspected it had more to do with finding a project in the form of a younger, more manic Sherlock than any luck on Lestrade’s part, but wasn’t willing to delve into that conversation just yet. “That still doesn’t explain why he’s not at hospital.”

Sherlock grimaced. “My brother has…a certain fondness for the Detective Inspector. I try not to dwell on it. We’ve agreed that Lestrade’s time is mine while we’re on a case. Anything further, I’d rather not discuss.”

Swallowing a grin, John nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, and the rest of the cab ride passed in comfortable, if amused, silence.

*****  
The night finished with only a long gouge on Sherlock’s forearm and a bruised cheekbone on John’s part, which meant it fell neatly on the “swimmingly” end of the John Watson Criminal Encounter Spectrum (“trademarked” John smirked to himself). However, the ringleader of the gang had managed to escape, which meant the Yarders still weren’t safe on the streets.

John and Sarah kept watch over Sally, while Lestrade stayed (presumably, since Sherlock refused to discuss anything about the arrangement) at Mycroft’s flat. The Detective Sergeant slowly began to stay awake for longer periods of time. Once she spent the majority of the day awake and cogent, John and Sarah began a physical therapy regimen, guided by expertise of friends at Bart’s.

Sarah couldn’t neglect the surgery, so most of the coaxing and directing was done by John. It worked out well, since his no-nonsense, no-coddling approach mixed well with Sally’s grim determination to be back at the Yard as soon as humanly possible. However, it occasionally led to disagreements between the two of them of when “one more” was really “once too many.”

A week later, the two of them were on their third lap of the flat for the day when Sally’s knee buckled beneath her. She would have hit the floor, but John had reflexes built on the field of battle and honed at Baker Street, catching her beneath her arms as she fell. He helped her to the couch, sat her back gently, and headed to the kitchen for water.

Frustrated, Sally bounced her head against the cushions behind her head and growled softly. “Ridiculous,” she said.

John returned just in time to hear her, handing her one of the glasses he’d brought. Wrinkling her nose, the Sergeant drank the water in three large gulps and then began maneuvering herself back up.

“Woah!” John said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Sally gave him a rough approximation of Sherlock’s Are you really that stupid glare. “I haven’t finished, John. There’s still half a lap to go. What are you doing? Get your hands off me!”

John had been trying to gently push her back onto the couch. “I think you’re done for the day. We don’t want to do more damage than we fix, do we?”

“Don’t coddle me, John” Sally snapped. “I’m not a child. I know what my limits are, and I can finish the course.”

Cocking his head to the side, John gave her an appraising look. “You know as well as I do that a body can only do so much. And that was _your_ body saying it was done.”

Sally huffed. “Bollocks. It was just a temporary setback is all. Are you going to help me or not?”

John didn’t even blink. “Not.”

“Fine,” Sally snapped. “I’ll do it on my own.” She began a slow, halting trek around the sitting room heading towards the kitchen. Despite her determination, she was forced to stop several times to catch her breath, and her knee nearly gave out twice again. When she reached the spare bedroom, she sat on the side of the bed and collapsed backwards, closing her eyes and breathing heavily as though she’d just run a marathon.

John entered, carrying another glass of water and some pills. “Here, take these” he said, without a hint of exasperation in his tone.

Eyeing him warily, Sally complied, setting the empty glass on the night table.

“Do you need….Would you like help to get back up, or are you alright?”

Sally tried to swing her legs up, but only felt waves of exhaustion crash over her. John, _bless him_ , didn’t make her beg, just grabbed under calves and lifted them gently onto the bed. The clothes Sally had been sleeping in (provided by Sarah) were folded neatly on the dresser. Gathering them up, he raised an eyebrow toward the bed.

Sally huffed. “I’m neither dead nor unconscious. I’ll take care of that myself, thank you.”

Grinning, John walked out of the room. “Figured as much. Let me know when you’ve finished so I can examine that knee.” He waited 10 minutes for the “all clear” from Sally but it never came. Knocking gently on the door, he pushed it open, listening for protests. “Sally, are you finished?” he asked. Silence.

He pushed the door the rest of the way open. There lay Sally Donovan, dead to the world with her pyjamas in disarray. John smiled fondly, shaking her shoulder and calling her name. She eventually woke up enough that he was able to prod her into the rest of her clothes, giving barely-audible replies and grunts to his prodding of her knee, and burrowing under the covers as soon as they were finished.

John laid a hand on her shoulder as he reached across the bed to turn out the lamp. Shaking his head fondly, he murmured “Christ, but you’re stubborn. Why can’t you just accept help?”

The Detective Sergeant, apparently less asleep than he had thought, nudged her head deeper into the pillows. “Failed,” she muttered. That was all John was able to get from her, and he spent the rest of the night pondering her answer.

Sarah arrived, shutting the door softly behind her. “Hello, John” she said softly. “How’d it go today?”

Smiling ruefully, John got up to hug her. “About the same as every other day. Hand and arm went well and the headache seems to be mostly gone. Her knee did give way earlier today, so we stopped early.”

Sarah looked back at him, shocked. “She stopped early?!” Sally’s stubborn streak had already asserted itself in the presence of the female doctor, who had to admire her grim determination and tenacity.

“Well, not exactly,” John admitted. “I stopped. She took a break and then finished the lap. Really took it out of her at the end. She’s asleep now.”

Sarah leaned against the countertop. “She is a stubborn one, isn’t she. Single minded. Almost _too_ bloody single minded. Almost like she’s scared of something.”

“She said something interesting tonight,” John replied. “I asked her why she was so stubborn, and all she said was that she had failed.”

Humming thoughtfully, Sarah turned to the refrigerator and started rummaging for food. “You know, she said something similar to me the other day. She made a weak joke about making up lost time for the Yard and hoping her position would still be there. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but…”

John was already nodding. “I’ve been thinking about it all night. Have you noticed she gets a little quiet when Sherlock’s talking about Lestrade? Almost like she…feels guilty about something.”

Sarah turned, shocked. “Guilty about what?”

Shrugging, John reached past her to snag a beer. “I don’t know. Nothing Sherlock’s said should lead her to feel guilty. But the human mind’s an odd thing sometimes.” A tiny undercurrent of self-deprecation under layers of medical experience.

“Maybe she _does_ feel guilty, then. So what do we do?”

“There’s not much we can do,” John said. “It would be nice if she’d talk to someone, but I don’t see her being the type to go see a therapist. And we know she doesn’t have much family.”

“Well, what about her boss himself,” Sarah asked.

“Out of commission for the time being,” John replied. “And I’m not sure either of them is in a fit state to make a trip like that.”

The two of them migrated over to the couch. “I’ll see if I can’t broach the question gently, then,” Sarah said between bites of her salad. “Maybe this week has been enough for her to talk to us.”

“Good luck,” John answered, and toasted her with his beer.

*****  
The next day, John was taking a shift at the surgery but Sarah had the day off. The women were sitting in the living room, Sarah having declared it an off day for physical therapy. Sally argued she’d never had an off day any of the other times she’d been injured. After much haggling and arguing, they managed to compromise: the regular laps of the flat and only hand exercises that involved holding things. Sally had to grin when Sarah brought out the day’s gripping practice--two wine glasses and a bottle of chardonnay.

“You’re not actually taking your pain pills, are you?” she asked the DS.

Sally shook her head. “No, it’s not been that bad.”

“Uh huh,” Sarah drawled. “Not that bad in comparison to what?”

“Bad sex” Sally said, with such a cheeky smile that Sarah had to laugh. “No, really. It’s not been too bad, and I’m not fond of medication. I’m alright. Honestly.”

“Fine,” Sarah said. “You can drink with me, then. I brought home a bottle of sparkling cider just in case, but I was hoping not to have to drink alone.” She promptly poured two generous servings and handed one of the glasses across the table.

The two women spent the night trading stories of bad dates, great books, and the most epic Sherlock encounters. Sarah felt a warmth of kinship spread through her chest as Sally grew more and more animated, flushing with the wine and the sparkling conversation. For her part, Sally loosened up, delving into more personal details of her life. Eventually, the conversation shifted to Lestrade.

“Good God,” Sarah said. “is he something to look at. The first time I saw him at the hospital, he was visiting John and Sherlock. I about drooled on him! That man is a silky, sexer fox. I mean, a sexy silver fox”

Sally giggled. “You had it right the first time. He’s a good man, is Gregory Lestrade. Great boss. Good friend. I would do anything for him.”

“You mean anything _to_ him,” Sarah returned.

“That too.” Sally toasted her host and refilled both their glasses. “The man deserves all the best things. A good wife, good job, a good sergeant.”

Sarah looked over the rim of her glass “He has a good sergeant.”

“No, no, no,” Sally returned. “A _really_ good sergeant. One who would have his back. Who could protect him all the time, not just when she was awake.”

“He asks you to protect him when you’re asleep?” Sarah asked. “Seems unrea-- unrel--- unfair if you ask me.”

Sally snorted. “Ask? He never asks for anything. Not for himself, I mean. He’ll ask for other things for victims and for the Freak and Partner of Freak and for us. But not for himself. Which means someone has to ask for things for him. And I’m his someone. Or, I was his someone. Now he needs a good someone because the someone who was his someone wasn’t good at being his someone so now he has to find a new someone to be his someone.”

Parsing that sentence was a bit difficult, but Sarah managed, having had slightly less wine than her compatriot. “Why can’t you still be his someone?”

Sally looked morosely into her glass. “I failed him,” she said.

“Failed him? How?”

“I couldn’t protect him. The job of a good DS is to protect her DI and to make them successful. And now the Yard is out a good inspector because he’s at home healing.”

Sarah reached across the couch and gently covered Sally’s hand with her own. The DS flinched and turned away, so Sarah rubbed between her shoulder blades instead. “Sally, I didn’t know you before you came to the surgery, but there is no way the woman who managed to make it all the way there with the injuries you had did anything less everything she could. And I’m sure DI Lestrade knows that, if he’s half the man you say he is.”

Sally reluctantly turned back, running an absent finger around the rim of her glass. “He _is_ good,” she said. “But he’s tough and fair, too. He’ll know that I screwed up. Once we’re back at the Yard, he’ll ask me to leave and I’ll have to find another team.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case. And even if it were,” Sarah soothed, “any team would be lucky to have you.”

The DS set her glass on the table with more force than was strictly necessary, nearly spilling the rest of her wine. “You don’t know him like I do. And I don’t want to work for another team! I want to work for Lestrade.”

Sarah began to backpedal. “Alright,” she said. “Look, there’s no use worrying about it until something actually happens, right? Why don’t we just go to bed? Things will look better in the morning.”

Sally huffed a breath of laughter. “That’s what he said.”

The joke threw Sarah for a loop for a bit. “What?”

“The Boss,” Sally clarified. “He says that when a case is starting to look hopeless. ‘It’ll look better in the morning.’”

Ah. Not a joke, then. “He’s a smart man, as you keep telling me. And we should listen to him, com’on.” The doctor helped Sally out of the couch and back to the bedroom, where the DS managed to change her clothes herself but laid on the bed like actually getting under the covers was too much work. By gently prodding and nudging, Sarah was able to get the younger woman fully under the bedding, and Sally was asleep nearly before her head hit the pillows. Sarah ran a tender hand over the mess of curls and turned out the lights, waiting for John to come back from the surgery.

*****  
When the morning rolled around, Sally stayed in her room in sullen silence. John and Sarah could hear her grunting with exertion, but there wasn’t enough room to do much walking. Finally, curiosity got the better of John and he knocked on the door softly.

“Sally?” he called. “Are you alright in there?”

All he got back in return was a grumpy “Go away.” Sarah tried a couple hours later, with no more success than John had had except for learning their patient had begun a regimen of press-ups and sit-ups of her own. The two doctors held a quiet conference in the sitting room and decided it was time to pull out the big guns, firing off a couple quick e-mails.

Only half an hour later, the ringing phone shattered the silence of the flat.

A knock on the door, and John’s voice came through the wood. “Sally? It’s for you.”

Sally turned over and shouted at the door. “Don’t want to talk.”

“It’s Lestrade.”

John put on his best military-blank face, trying not to show his satisfaction at having broken through her self-imposed isolation. Sally grabbed for the phone shutting the door firmly back in his face, leaving John to wander back bemusedly to Sarah’s couch.  
The DS laid back gingerly on the bed. “Hello, sir.”

Her boss’s dark chocolate tones came through the receiver, a little more gravel than honey. “Hello, Sally. How’re you holding up?”

She huffed into the phone. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that, sir?” she asked.

Lestrade chuckled a bit and sighed. “Going bloody crazy. Too many walls, not enough windows.” Sally looked out at the trees behind Sarah’s apartment block. “I know exactly what you mean, sir. Did the Freak--er, Sherlock give you any idea when we’ll be able to go back?”

“No,” the DI answered, “I’m hoping in the next couple of weeks, which means you’ll need to be ready to do your part. I’ll need a good Sergeant beside me when this all goes down.”

Silence from the other end.

“Sally? You haven’t fallen asleep on me, have you? I didn’t think I was that boring.”

“No, sir,” she managed to choke out. “I just…never mind, sir. I’ll be ready sir.”

Now it was her turn to get silence in return. Then Lestrade cleared his throat and dropped his voice even lower. “Are you really alright, Sally? I haven’t heard that many sirs from you since your first day on the team.” _And definitely not since she caught me snogging Mycroft in my office like a randy teenager_ he thought.

“Yes, sir. I’m fine. I’ll be able to help you find someone who fits the team.” Sally’s voice carried a thin, reedy quality that Lestrade couldn’t quite place his finger on. And then, suddenly, he could.

“Sally Donovan,” he admonished. “Are you about to cry on me?”

Sally swallowed hard and forced down her emotions. “No, sir. Of course not.” She could hear the fond smile in his voice when he spoke back. “Good. Glad to hear it. Don’t want rumours that I made the best Detective Sergeant in the whole damn Yard cry. I’d be checking my coffee for poison for years.”

A weak chuckle, then: “Not years, sir. Months at most.”

Lestrade made a sound of fond disagreement. “I think you underestimate yourself, Sergeant Donovan. You seem to be the only one who does.”

She knew it wasn’t true. There were too many people at the Yard who looked at her and only saw “woman,” and “black,” and “loud” instead of “Sergeant,” “efficient,” or “dedicated” for her to believe him. And she knew that he didn’t expect her to, but the sentiment was appreciated all the same.

She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t the best, that he deserved better. To make a declaration only found in war movies of dedication and followership and loyalty. But they were practical people, her DI and her, judging actions over empty words. So all she said was “Thank you, sir” and told him she’d be ready for his call.

When they hung up, her heart felt lighter and her face lit in a small, privately proud smile. She limped out to the sitting room and handed the phone back to Sarah, noting their identical smothered smugness. Looking between the two of them, she offered an olive branch. “Take away tonight? I’ll buy,” she said, a grin softening her features.

*****  
It was the better part of two weeks before the combined efforts of the Holmes brothers cleared up the case enough that they felt it was safe for the Yarders to go back to work. The last of the traitors had been captured and were currently being held in the highest-security institution Mycroft could arrange. Sally and Lestrade were grateful to be back at work and to have the madness behind them, taking a grim satisfaction at giving the grieving families of their victims a small bit of closure.

Sally returned to her own home as soon as she was cleared medically. It took Sarah several days to adjust to having her flat to herself again. No more strange toothbrushes by the sink, or extra pairs of shoes lying around. More than once she found herself preparing three mugs of tea with various levels of sugar and milk for guests who were no longer there.

So, she was surprised when her doorbell buzzed late on a Tuesday night. She answered to find Sally Donovan standing there, holding a box of decadent chocolate in one hand and two bottles of wine in the other, and smiling at her.

Sarah took one of the bottles and hurried to the kitchen to grab a couple of glasses. Sally followed her, stopping clear on the other side of the room. She put the rest of her gifts on the worktop and leaned back against the sink, crossing her arms.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Sally said. “For everything.”

Sarah waved it away. “It was no bother. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“No,” Sally answered. “I mean, I am feeling better. Much, thanks. But I know I was a bit…stroppy and out of sorts, so I wanted to apologize. Also to find out if there’s any way I can make it up to you.”

Sarah smiled gently at the other woman. “What were you considering?”

“Dinner,” Sally replied. “Wherever you like.”

The doctor moved to the other side of the room and handed her guest a glass of the wine. Put her hand on Sally’s arm. Tilted her head to the side a bit. “Sounds like an excellent beginning to a night.”

Sally winked and tipped her glass in a toast. “To beginnings, then.”

Sarah’s grin grew wider. “To beginnings.”  



End file.
